BY SHARON MARTIN
in Grandma’s living room,
both in oval frames.
One was Grandpa Edge,
handsome in his cavalry uniform.
World War I.
Jockey-small and horse savvy,
he didn’t join
to become a muleskinner.
We serve where we are sent.
The other was of his oldest son.
Lawrence quit school to fight.
The story I heard was
he jumped into a mined foxhole
in Belgium in 1944.
The story I knew was
Grandma and Pap, still heartbroken
twenty years out.
I wasn’t a mother then. It took
another twenty years for me
to understand their pain and their gratitude
that another of their handsome sons
came home.
When Uncle Junior was an old man
He told me he saw Iwo Jima
from a hospital ship, soldiers dug in
on the beach.
When he got to shore, he realized
they weren’t dug in but dead.
He carried the memory of Lawrence with him
as he picked up
and patched up the fallen,
served out the war.
Another Memorial Day
I skip the parades.
I don’t celebrate so much
as I remember
both the mourners
and the mourned.
–Sharon Edge Martin lives in Oilton, OK and is a regular contributor to The Oklahoma Observer
Beautiful piece written by my first cousin Sharon Martin. Choking back tears every time I read it.